Prince of the Night
by sister-b
Summary: Sebastian LaCroix, Prince of the Camarilla in Los Angeles, ponders on Kindred, his position above them, and the state of Kindred society in his city these nights. VtM:B one-shot.


There it was again. That blasted shiver followed by the settling in of an uneasiness that wouldn't leave him for the rest of the night. LaCroix shifted in his chair and continued to flip through the papers in front of him. An initial here, a signature there, skimming the contents of the legalese to ensure he was signing the right thing. Unconsciously, he bared his teeth as he felt it again: the illusory sensation of a hand gripping his dead heart. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As if for comfort, he looked to his side at his massive sheriff. Cold. Dead. Immovable. Silent. Loyal. LaCroix doubted the one to whom he entrusted his "life" was feeling the uneasiness. For that matter, LaCroix doubted the sheriff had ever been competely human.

Becoming restless, LaCroix rose from his seat and went to stand at the window, looking down at the city. So many lives in his hands. He held domain over so many that blended into the night like any ordinary shadow. By holding them, he also held the fragile lives of the seemingly infinite number of kine inhabiting Los Angeles. It was _his_ rule that kept them from being slaughtered and feasted upon as they themselves would feast upon cattle.

For two hundred years, LaCroix had worked for this. His title was Prince; he felt like King. Those who had assisted in his rise to grandeur had received his favor. Those who had attempted to hinder him had paid. So was the way of Kindred society. So was the way of the Ventrue. The Kingship Clan. Through his first years as Kindred, his sire feverishly taught him to be proud of the blood that lay in his veins. To hold his head high when he heard snickering, mocking voices whispering of the new "Blue Blood." If that was the worst they could come up with, he had nothing to fear from them. They all knew it was his destiny to rule.

Destiny. Blessing. Burden. Curse. A thankless job, but one he bore without hesitation. No one would recognize him for a job well done, a decision thoughtfully made. _Everyone_ would chastise him for a mistake, create an outcry for his head if his words were found unpopular. With a bitter chuckle to himself, LaCroix thought that he would not find it surprising if Kindred would travel from other cities to pull him down from his place, given half the chance.

But he was Ventrue. When he was given the blood of his sire, he was given the position of overseer of Kindred, magistrate of his brethren in Caine. He closed his eyes. As a Prince of the Camarilla, he was not to publicly put any faith in the rumblings about Caine and upcoming Gehenna. Every society had its religions. The Camarilla neither condoned nor condemned the teachings that some Kindred passed to their childer, but by no means did the Camarilla advertise any belief in the old legends. The organization was in place to preserve Kindred life and ensure that the Masquerade was protected, not prevent a rumored apocalypse. There were other, more important things to worry about.

Casting a sideways glance at his sheriff, LaCroix turned away from the window and said, "I'll be retiring to my chambers for the rest of the evening." The mountainous sheriff nodded, the only sort of answer ever given to his master. With that confirmation of understanding, LaCroix left his office. His frame was still rigid from the odd electricity in the air that he'd noticed too often these nights.

In his chambers, he struggled for comfort. Discarded his dress coat and tie, poured fresh blood into his best crystal wine goblet, flicked on the igniting switch for the gas fueled fireplace. He set his glass on a table and sank into the chair closest to the fireplace, massaging his forehead with his fingertips as he gazed blankly into the flames. The more superstitious Kindred would have whispered that his fascination with fire was a bad omen, a foreshadowing of what was to come. He brushed away their misgivings. Even in this damned body he inhabited, he loved watching fire consume and cleanse. Its power enthralled him. It could destroy and spread its influence with a mere touch. Even after it was gone, its scent still would fill the air for days. LaCroix longed to be like this fire. Respected. Shaping things without argument or protest or power to prevent it. He wanted to walk out of a room and have his presence still felt there.

He knew he was close to this goal. He was not unaware of the fact that he had gained presence enough that every eye in a room, Kindred or kine, would be on him as he entered. It was one quality that had gained him the title of Prince. But things were not perfect. He still did not have the influence that his beloved fire had. He could not yet speak a word and transform this city—_his_ city—into the quintessential picture of Camarilla perfection he longed to see. The local anarchs were persistent, unwilling to see the benefit of Camarilla rule over Los Angeles, insisting the only way the Camarilla had successfully set up throne for LaCroix was due to the Kuei Jin attacks against them in recent months. They clung to history in a way that most Ventrue would be proud to see; now if only they'd cling to the _right_ historical matters! They insisted like children that they would not agree to a Camarilla presence because they had squatter's rights. "We were here first! We saw it first!"

LaCroix let out another humorless chuckle. Ungrateful rabble-rousers, the lot of them. _He_ sought to unite the clans and sects, make a Camarilla society that worked like a well-oiled machine. _They_ wished to force segregation on their own kind, casting out those who agreed with the Camarilla teachings just because they don't like the thought of someone ruling over them. There was a _reason_ they were dubbed "anarchs." Anarchy was all they knew, giggling as they made messes for the Camarilla to clean up, breaking the Masquerade for _fun_. They played a dangerous game.

A sudden knock at the door to his chambers jolted LaCroix out of his thoughts. The uneasiness he'd been feeling all night suddenly brushed down his spine, making him shiver again before it settled as a cold, hard stone in the pit of his abdomen. He rose from his seat and answered the door with a frown. "Prince LaCroix, sir," the young-looking ghoul at the door addressed him, bowing in respect. "My apologies for disturbing you, sir, but there's a problem."

LaCroix's eyes narrowed. "What _problem_ is so important?"

"One of the other ghouls happened to witness a disturbing happening at one of the bars outside town. It seems that Mr. Brian Phillips was there speaking with a female human. The ghoul reported that their conversation was _dangerously_ close to a Masquerade violation."

LaCroix gave it a moment of thought. "Put a trail on Mr. Phillips. Make sure he does--"

The ghoul bowed again as he interrupted. "Apologies, sir, but we already did that. He took the woman to his haven. We think he's Embraced her."

The Prince's lips pressed together into a thin line, and his hand gripped the door handle more tightly. "Find out for certain," he ordered. "If that is indeed the case, you know what to do. Either way, report back to me once you have any information. Take the sheriff, just in case."

Another bow. "Yes, sir. Of course." The ghoul turned and hurried down the hall to deliver the Prince's orders as LaCroix closed the door. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and massaged his temples. As if proof to reinforce that on which he'd been pondering already, a well-known, well-liked Brujah member of the Camarilla may have just signed his own death warrant with LaCroix's signature. "I don't need this now," the Prince whispered to himself.

He let himself lean back against the door with a weary sigh. He stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes. Earlier in the night, he'd been thinking of how the whole city rested on his shoulders. How could it be that the life of _one_ Kindred would feel heavier? Perhaps because he was familiar with this particular Kindred? They were not friends, couldn't be called acquaintances even; but LaCroix was aware of Mr. Phillips's achievements. At Kindred gatherings at the Nocturne Theater, when appropriate to do so, Mr. Phillips was one of the first to stand and speak in support of the Camarilla. It was this that made LaCroix hope that what the ghoul had just told him could not be true. An Embrace behind the back of the Prince was a severe offense.

With a deep breath, LaCroix pushed himself off the door, standing straight again. He rarely let himself indulge in a moment of weakness when his shoulders would slump, his head bowing low, the fire gone from his eyes; and he _never_ let himself indulge for too long. Too much time in that state would allow a stain of depression to begin to spread. He was _Prince._ He had to be a pillar of strength. Kindred had to know that he was not a being to be crossed. No matter _who_ broke the laws... LaCroix picked up his coat and draped it over his arm. He replaced his tie around his neck and was tying the knot as he left his chambers to head back to his office.

The ghoul found the Prince at his desk as usual a few hours later. After bowing low, the ghoul stepped close to LaCroix's desk. "It was too late," the ghoul said, not meeting LaCroix's eyes.

The Prince made sure his expression did not betray his disappointment. "I see. And where are Mr. Phillips and the childe now?"

"Two agents staked them. They are en route to the theater now with the sheriff."

"Good. You all have carried out your duties well." LaCroix didn't acknowledge the ghoul's small, proud smile. "Go. Spread word of the gathering. Make certain to inform our contacts in Hollywood and Santa Monica as well."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

LaCroix watched the ghoul hurry out before turning to the window again. He already knew how this night would play out. Phillips and his childe would be brought to their Final Death as is Camarilla law for not being granted permission before siring. Anarchs would scream tyranny and go stomping back to their corners of night, vowing to bring the "Cammy" threat down. Those loyal to the Camarilla would shrug and say, "It's a shame, but he knew the law." And the night would continue as if nothing had ever happened. With a sigh, he turned and made his way out of the office.

The Nocturne Theater was not far from Venture Tower. It didn't take long for LaCroix to arrive, entering through the back door. He waited in one of the dimly lit offices backstage. LaCroix sat at a desk not his own and frowned at the desk top. Matters like this didn't come up commonly, but it disturbed him when they did. He felt his control slipping. Now even upstanding members of the Camarilla were daring to go against him, thinking they wouldn't get caught? The thought would have been preposterous a mere few months previous. Now, however, it was too common a situation. The Prince knew he had to do something soon to regain a strong handle on the city. With more and more defecting to anarch these nights... He needed something extraordinary to happen in his favor.

Turning his head, he took note of the time on the small desk clock and stood, exiting the office and walking down the concrete, backstage hallway. Without hesitation, he walked onto the wooden stage, his sheriff having already taken his place at one side. Two vampires were on their knees, stakes driven through their hearts to paralyze them and their hands tied behind their backs. The seats of the theater were filled with a sprinkling of Kindred, members of all clans present. LaCroix raised his chin high and addressed them, "Good evening. My fellow Kindred, my apologies for disrupting any business or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening. It's unfortunate that the affair that gathers us tonight is a troubling one..."


End file.
